May Day! May Day! Roman is 3!

Two little frogs.

With another May Day comes another similar, and ever-so-tangentially-connected-with-the-ancient-Romans, celebration of life: Roman's birthday.  Three-years-old and ever-growing.

This year we had a week-long celebration, it seemed.  My mom and step-dad were in town so presents flowed freely - not to mention the packages that kept coming from friends and family all over - and then at the end of the week, on Sunday, we had Roman's birthday party at a local gymnasium where the kids jumped in a bouncy castle, flung themselves into a giant foam-pool, and dazzled us with their giant parachute skills.  

Roman & his Pablo

It was a wonderful way to start a new year and new phase in Roman's life - enjoying more special moments with his best school friends and making more memories of Portland, the first city he is fully conscious of living in (and which he told me he "want[s] to stay FOREVER" in), before we move in June.

Roman's first three years have been a mix and mingling of many cultures, many impressions and many experiences.  While I am kind of resigned to the fact that he will only ever think he remembers most of those (for example, he claims he can remember all his friends and his house in London - you know, back when he was six months old!), I am also so glad that we have been able to document those moments and have them for him so he can know what an exciting and interesting and open life he has had the chance to lead so far.  But as he grows and becomes more independent and thoughtful, I face having to leave all those experiences and choices more and more up to him.  Sometimes he doesn't want to go to or do the things we want for him, and I suppose as a parent that struggle will probably continue forever and anon. Guidance and hope in equal measures are the tools of a good parent.

To that effect, I was struck by a quote I saw the other day, which encapsulates not only a theme but an aspiration I've held dear in my life and which I hope my son will one day ponder and find meaning in for himself:

"I always wonder why birds stay in the same place when they can fly anywhere on the earth. Then I ask myself the same question." Harun Yahya

Two weeks ago I was talking to a fellow parent about how wild these past several years of our lives have been: from University to New York City to Londontown to Abu Dhabi to Portland, ME (!) and now heading to our next (and hopefully long-term) adventure in Denver.  I think a lot of people think we're crazy for moving around so much - they certainly show shock and semi-hidden disapproval when I tell them we're moving again! - especially with a young child.  But I was telling him that because we have every intention of staying in Denver  long-term, I feel no qualms about having moved once every year of Roman's life up until now.  Because while others might see instability and constant change, I see opportunity within the comfortable confines of a stable family unit. Aside from the stability we will provide in his life as a family unit, what I want most for my son is the ability to be flexible, open, and adventurous in his life.  To allow life to come at him and be fearless in trying the things others might find too difficult or inconvenient or out of the norm.  I want to model a life for him that screams out "Go get your dreams!  Even if you don't know what they are, go out, don't be afraid - go find your life!"

Blowing out his candle at his party the other day.

This child of mine who some might think has been pulled to-and-fro at the whim of his parents "obsessed with moving" (can't tell you how many times I've heard that one put into euphemisms), with seeing the world, has seen, done and been exposed to so much beauty, culture, adventure and so many different mind-sets and beliefs.  We have always tried to show him that different is normal, that uniqueness can be a privilege, not a burden, and that to truly be happy, you must, somewhere deep inside, plant and grow the seeds of true acceptance, true curiosity and true love of world and mankind.  

Eating ice cream at Smiling Hills Farm in Maine

Before he was born, Roman had already swum in the Aegean, ridden mopeds all over the Greek Islands and traipsed about on the Tube all over London. 

Before he was one he had ridden through the Chunnel, traveled cross-Atlantic a handful of times, and had more stamps in his passport than I had until I was nearly twenty.  He played in English gardens, eating British strawberries and having clotted cream. 

Before he was two, he had played with camels in the world's largest expanse of desert, had friends from New Zealand, England, Syria, the UAE and Australia, and had Dairy Queen ice cream in Muscat, Oman.  He loved to eat dates, Labne for breakfast, and watched cartoons in Arabic every morning. 

Cape Elizabeth

 And in his third year, his first ever lived within the confines of his own home-country, he has become a lover of beaches, an eater of Lobster, an explorer, a runner, a cape-wearer, a puddle-jumper and player.  He has caught frogs and tadpoles, he has ridden through the snowy, Maine wilderness in a personal sleigh (being pulled by his father no-less), frolicked on the beaches of Ogonquit and Kettle Cove, screeched on his own race-track (the sidewalks of our neighborhood), and he has had the opportunity to become close to his grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousin.

Cavenders in Dallas, TX with Ava

And yet, most days, he will sit in the living room and thumb through our picture album books, reminiscing about his "Abu Dhabi friend" Olivia and her brother Munch, or about his "London house" which he is insistent we go back and visit, or about the time we went to the desert and saw camels or about his "old school."  Those memories which he may or may not even know he had, are now there in his mind and heart as reality.  And much to my amazement and joy, he feels proud!  Proud of the crazy-back-and-forth life we have shared for these past three wonderful years.
And inevitably he will continue to ask: "Mommy can you read me the Abu Dhabi book again?"

I am so proud of him and who he is becoming.  He still mostly refuses to speak Spanish, but he will eat lobster, parmiggiano and fiddlehead ferns so I guess I can give him a break on the language thing.  :)  What an interesting little person Roman has turned out to be - I feel so lucky to be his mother and I can't wait to see what this fourth year has in store for us.

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Plenty of Ottolenghi & A Word to the Sage

Mushrooms & Herb Polenta from Plenty by Ottolenghi

I have something to confess.   A relatively major thing, as foody confessions go.  There's something I've been keeping to myself for several years now that I dared not utter but was forced to the forefront of my mind a few months ago when I randomly purchased a new cookbook.

I'd been wanting it for a while but I decided to finally just go out and buy Plenty when I saw it at a highly aesthetically pleasing little shop on the main street in Camden, ME on a whimsical weekend getaway in the fall.  I ordered it off Amazon as soon as I got home.  I just couldn't stand not having that picture of the eggplants (slathered in some sort of deliciously light yoghurty-sauce and sprinkled with thyme, zatar and pomegranate seeds, if you must know) as part of my daily visual binge.

I flipped through it voraciously as soon as it came.  And I oohed and ahhhhed over the lovely, intensely creative vegetarian recipes which literally jump off the page at you.  I'd heard of Ottolenghi for so long.  First, just because I lived in London, of course (they're in Kensington, Notting Hill, Belgravia...).  Then because it was somewhat of a rival to Melrose & Morgan, the place across the street from the bakery I worked at in Primrose Hill where I generally got my lunch (to this day I often dream of their beef wellington).  And finally because a friend of mine was obsessed by their style of cooking and was going on about the new book coming out and how she'd pre-ordered it.  I scoffed.  All-natural ingredient-driven delis with modern lighting, bright white platters and on-the-edge-of-acceptable-vegetarian-salads are kind of "a thing" in London.  They're almost common, ironically.  It's like they're the British upper-crust's answer to the working man's pub on every corner: "So, you dare to serve microwaved cottage pie with frozen chips?  Take THAT scoundrels!"  

Vibrant Vegetable Recipes - as Ottolenghi's Plenty is described - have arrived.

* * *

Yottam Ottolenghi is Israeli and, surprisingly, not a vegetarian (as Plenty's recipes and his weekly column in The Guardian would suggest).  I don't know much about Israeli food, though I do know a fair bit about the Mediterranean and I'm guessing he's going for a fusion of those two with light, modern British cuisine.  I admire the use of local, fresh ingredients and the fact that everything is made from scratch by them every single day.  The only problem I often find with modern, all-vegetarian takes is that they often look better than they taste.  It seems to me that in an effort to use as many fresh, raw, unique ingredients as possible, the flavor combinations can often cross the line a little too far into the purely "artsy-fartsy" side of food, straying every-so-much from the purely "tasty-wasty" side of things.  (I mean, in all honest, I have never tasted a dish where plain quinoa featured prominently that I loved.) 

Despite my misgivings, I must admit that I was spoiled for choice with Plenty.  It covers all the seasonal bases and I had no problem finding  a warm, inviting Fall or Winter dish.  In the end I settled on a deceptively simple recipe: Mushroom and Herb Polenta.

I had all the ingredients in the fridge and any recipe that includes more than one type of mushroom in copious amounts makes it to the table at my house.  I was also especially taken by the idea of creating a beautiful slab of polenta.*  Just so aesthetically appealing.  But anyway, the only thing I was missing was the chervil.  After a quick google search I realized you can substitute a combination of parsley and sage for it and felt happy that I finally had a reason to cut into that giant, beautiful sage bush growing in my backyard before the first frost.  Except for one thing - and here's where the confession comes in - I hate sage.

What possessed me to grab it anyway?  What made me think that instead of using the 1/8 tsp the website suggested I cold use the 4-5 full sage leaves I greedily grabbed?  Was it my hopeful trust in Ottolenghi's magic chef wand?  Was it that I thought maybe this would be the dish that converted me?  It's all beyond me.  I grabbed it anyway.  Yes, I'm a beast.  

I poured my heart into that recipe, chopping up a fragrant herbal storm, conjuring and channeling the spirit of London's most sophisticated, most natural eateries - and what resulted was beautiful.  Truly beautiful.  A purely aesthetic masterpiece of creamy polenta with roasted, autumnal mushrooms.  A delightful thing to look at, and one which Matthew found me gleefully photographing in the backyard as he got home from work.  

But back at the dinner table, I knew something had gone awry.

I don't know why I don't like sage!  I never have.  Maybe in a minute quantity I can kind-of stand it but to me it just tastes like badly-cooked liver.  Badly-cooked liver in the deceptively enticing form of a lovely, velvety leaf.  A perfectly shaped leaf that is iconic for many dishes such as Saltimbocca alla Romana in which it serves as a garnish and seasoning, or traditional Christmas sausage stuffing.  And yet, I just don't get it.  It ruined the dish for me and I am convinced the chervil would have done the same.  If I ever cook this again (which I might), I'd leave it out altogether.

Ottolenghi prides itself on bold, fresh flavors.  This polenta certainly delivers that and a little too much more.  I can't say I agree with this particular flavor combination but...I can't wait to try another recipe.  And maybe even get the first cookbook. :) 

*In the book it's served on a wooden board (which, if I'd had a big enough one I would have done).

Lovely Memories & Chocolate Cream Pie: Happy Valentine's Day!

Chocolate Cream Pie: Successful Man-Present

Happy Valentine's Day!

I feel no shame in saying that I am one of the people in the world who celebrates Valentine's Day and expects my significant other to do the same (not that he dislikes it :)).  

I see nothing wrong with a day dedicated to love - preferably Romantic, but platonic, familial, and cosmic are all acceptable on this day too - and happiness.  I love going out for a deliciously romantic dinner, being given flowers, and maybe even chocolates too.  I love having a day to remember why I married my best friend, why I decided to actually promise I'd live the rest of my personal forever dedicated to one other human being, instead of running rampant in a self-centered and probably semi-drunk state.  

Unfortunately for men, I think girls generally tend to get the lion's share during Valentine's Day (blame it on tradition, blame it on the man - it is what it is) which is why I am always at a little bit of a loss as to what I should get / do for Matt.  Is it too weird for me to buy him a box of chocolates?  Last year I solved that problem by buying him a giant pile of Extra Large Cadbury Fruit & Nut Bars (his personal kryptonite, nightly snack, and the only food he never gets sick of eating, or so he claims) which I wrapped in red crepe paper.  I thought was a nice, more-masculine version of a somewhat female-stereotyped traditional V-day favorite.  This year I decided to go the homemade route: I will conquer Matt once more by seducing his taste buds with a home made *brief drum roll* Chocolate Cream Pie.  

This pie is usually a creature of the semi-homemade persuasion.  Whenever I've had it, it's been made with Jell-o chocolate pudding and from a store-bought crust.  Most people consider it a fast, easy cheat-sheet to above-average dessert.  Luckily, the real thing is not much harder to make fully from scratch than the somewhat forgettable semi-homemade one, but with quality ingredients and some preference-tweaks, it is significantly more delicious.

But now for my small-but-loving bone to pick: This top 5 list is going out to all the Valentine's Day Humbugs out there - the ones who call it a "corporate-created-holiday" and refuse to buy Hallmark cards or wear anything red on the 14th.  I think there is a small but definite little corner in my psyche's conception of Hell reserved for you, right there next to the freaks who think somewhere in an underground bunker / sky scraper there's 11 angry white men in suits sitting around a conference table ruling the world via Blackberry.  Weirdos.  Go get some happiness and leave the rest of us alone. :P

* * *

Top 5 Lovely Memories This Year & Beyond

or, things that will make me smile this February 14th

5.The Answering Machine Message.

This is really random.  Matt and I have had the same answering machine message since the first month we moved to London in January 2007 - it even survived the move to Abu Dhabi.  And it's a special message that always makes me laugh and warms my heart each time I hear it, or each time someone laughs when they hear it and consequently leaves a message.  I would be lying if I didn't say I occasionally listen to it for no reason, and sometimes I enjoy not picking up the phone just to hear it.

It's funny and sweet because it involves me blasting "Don't Stop Me Now" - my favorite song by Queen - while I then record a brief message muffled with maniacal laughter as Matt screams "No!" in the background -also laughing, though incredulously - because he'd just specifically shot down the idea of me recording a Queen-themed answering machine message.  

But he obviously secretly loved it.  And we've never changed it since.

4. Beauty and the Beast
My sister and I grew up watching Disney movies like there was no tomorrow.  My sister's favorite was Beauty and the Beast, and so now that Ava, her daughter, is two, she is also obsessed with it.  When we were visiting them in TX during Christmas this part year Ava could sing the refrain to the theme song: "Tale as old as time, Song as old as rhyme, Beauty and the Beast."

One day, she and Roman were standing in the living room watching Beauty and the Beast for the nth time that day, when she suddenly grabbed Roman in a ball-dancing pose and started forcing him to dance while she sang the theme song, just like Belle and Beast on the tv screen.  Roman was a little taken aback, but after a while, he joined in.  Ava proclaimed herself Belle, leaving the beastly title to the little man who'd won it long before.

When we got home I discovered that my generally somewhat quiet beast child could also sing the theme song, and ask for his cousin "Aywa" with arms stretched out when he did it.  :)  That's love if ever I've seen it.

3. Happy Birthday To Me.

This past boxing day I turned *gasp* 30.  We were in Texas visiting my little sister and her husband and I wasn't quite sure what we'd do to celebrate, if anything much.  Little to my knowledge, Matt had orchestrated a night of debaucherous karaoke at a local dive called Marina's that will not soon be forgotten.  

Somewhere between Matt singing "Happy Birthday" Marilyn -Monroe-style as the opening number, someone slapping down the giant silver blimp balloon in the middle of the dance floor, pretending to spank a top-hatted townie with whom I decided to dance to a Michael Jackson song, taking free kamakazi shots with Marina's half-Mexican, half-Russian American Airlines employee son who also works for the Mexican mafia (he showed us the tat), and getting a free 2011 Waffle House calendar AND pins (which we all wore proudly) from our awkward waitress at 3am, I had one of the best and most unforgettable birthdays in memory.  And it was all kept under wraps by one very thoughtful and hilarious husb.

 

2. He said "I Love You."

This may seem silly because I generally assume Roman loves me, but it was a really big deal when he actually said "I love you" to me for the first time last week.  I've been saying it to him numerous times daily since his birth (usually accompanied by bone-crushing hugs and slobbery-Mama kisses), and even though I knew someday, somehow he'd be able to say it back, nothing could prepare me for the magical, pixy-dust-filled moment when he did say it and gave me a huge hug and kiss back.   Being a mom is the best.

1. Rome.

I know I've gone on somewhat endlessly about our trip to Rome in November of last year, but it really was an emotional big deal for me.  One of my favorite things Matt and I did (spontaneously) throughout the trip was walk back to all the places we used to go as boyfriend and girlfriend in 2002.  And at every single one of those places we'd remember silly little things like what he said to me, or what I was wearing (that white dress) or he was wearing (that Red Sox hat), or how some idiot screwed up a presentation by cursing and I missed it because my eye was swollen to the size of a tennis ball thanks to my insisting that Matt pet the urban-horse-and-carriage horse because he'd never petted a horse before in his life (freak) and I was on the number 44 bus headed back to the centro at the time. *deep breath* Ah, good times.   

But actually, those moments were precious, because they were the moments in which Matt and I first got to know and love each other, and it's always important to remember that. That in particular.  And for the rest of your life.

EXTRA SPECIAL BONUS REASON:  Two and a half months ago we found out that in late September we'll be parents for the second time!  Bring on little creature number two, be it a girly or a boyly one :)

* * *

Chocolate Cream Pie

Serves 6-8

 

I made this pie by adapting this recipe on Epicurious.  The recipe only needed a few tweaks in my opinion: I doubled the amount of whipped cream I put on top (and whipped it until it held stiff peaks instead of soft ones), and I used half bittersweet chocolate and half dark chocolate, and found it rich but delicious.  I also used Oreo cookies (icing removed) for the crust and thought it was more flavorful than just using chocolate Nilla wafers would be.  Matt liked it so much, I'm making it again this week!  Winner.

My Fictitious Mad Men.

I don't know why but I felt the need to write this post a couple of days ago as I sat in my car waiting in the 20-minute line at the gas station.  Not that I was taking inspiration from my surroundings, because, let's face it - I can't actually recall the last time I saw a shockingly good looking man here in Abu Dhabi (husband excluded), but I can say with a certain degree of certitude that it was not at the local ADNOC.

Matt and I started watching the television drama Mad Men about a week ago or so.  We are about 4 years late in jumping on the bandwagon with this, much to my now-horror.  Matt's dad had mentioned the show before but only in the context of how people used to smoke and drink in the office all the time and that in and of itself never piqued my interest.  It was only when I was faced with unfathomable possibility of suffering through 8+ hours of Paul Giamatti as John Adams (great story but seriously, kill me now), that I desperately searched for another series to dive into and found Mad Men.

Much to my delight, Mad Men is far more than just men drinking and smoking in the office (though I will admit that's about 75% of the show): it's an intriguing account of Advertising and Life in 1960s New York City through the lens of the "Mad Men" themselves: the Madison Avenue Males Elite.  Even luckier for me, the main Mad Man is a man by the name of Don Draper, or Jon Hamm if you must be petulantly accurate.

And so while sitting there in my Nissan Murano, waiting to request a full tank of "special" grade gas, I deeply pondered whether I'd rather - in another life - end up with my previous crush, Stringer Bell of The Wire, or  my current one, Don Draper of Mad Men (who, oddly, kinda looks like a better-looking Steve Carell).  That's when this list was born.  These two men, or rather their characters - and let me be clear that I don't think I'd like either of them much in real life - to me are infinitely attractive for one reason or another.   And just for the record a disclaimer:  No offense or disrespect is intended with this list to the only non-fictitious Mad Man of my life and dreams. :)

* * *

My Top Six (Fictitious) Mad Men

as in, the very fictitious men of my dreams

6. Jimmy Darmody of Boardwalk Empire

Sorry, no matter how good of an actor, nothing in the world could entice me to include Steve Buscemi on this list.  I feel infinitely sorry (and kinda grossed out) for Kelly Macdonald in having to kiss him as much as she does in this show (even if it is her big break).  No, let's leave Enoch out of this conversation.

While I will admit to the somewhat tangential nature of this crush, I do find something intriguing and attractive about the troubled Jimmy Darmody (Michael Pitt, not of Brad Pitt-relation, fyi).  This actor is about as close to a full-on typecast as anyone.  He only plays weird, screwed up young men with ghost-like complexions. It was true in that episode of Law & Order SVU, it was true in Murder By Numbers, and it's true in Boardwalk Empire.  And yet, there's something endearing about Jimmy: he went to Princeton, then fought in the Great War, then omes back to Jersey to try to be a father and husband only to find he has lost himself along the way.  Oh and he's kind of cute.

5. Michael Scott of The Office (American version)

Is this so wrong?  Is it wrong to think Steve Carell is kinda good looking?  I know my Tia Ita agrees with me, but is she really the only woman out there who does?  Michael Scott is an idiot, but he is so genuine and desperate that you almost can't stand but want to give him a hug.  And I know he has unconventional looks, but I do think he's good looking actually (go ahead and judge).  I felt a serious dislike of Jan in those episodes when they were living together and she'd lost her job and was essentially running him into the ground by funding Candles by Jan.  And I rejoiced with him when he almost got the job at corporate, or almost got fired but didn't with the sell-out, and I continue to love him, through the female-suit wearing incident, despite him crying at the office olympics award ceremony, and because of the way he said "I do delcare!" in the Murder Mystery episode.  Ah Michael Scott, if you didn't inspire real loyalty, even Dwight would have left by now. :)

4. Jeffrey Lebowski, The Dude of The Big Lebowski

Wild card! I know.  There's not much attractive about Jeff Bridges, much less his incarnation of the bowling, pacifist, doobie-smoking Dude.  But there is something very appealing about him - and I don't mean in the way Maude Lebowski found him appealing.  He's funny (though he doesn't mean to be), he's constantly alternating between being completely frazzled and completely high, he's smart enough to know Walter is full of shite, and yet, he accepts the offer to be courier in the very-obviously fixed case of the missing trophy-wife.  Oh and he compulsively drinks White Russians, which is both tasteful and ridiculous at the same time.  I can't even begin to count how many times this guy made me laugh aloud, and that has to count for something in a man.

Always privy to the new shit, the Dude abides.

3. Tony Soprano of The Sopranos

Was it just me or did you also alternate between loving and hating this guy?  I will be unequivocally clear about kind of really hating James Gandolfini (isn't his last name nauseating?! Mini-Gandolf[s] is what is means!), and also feeling that he has essentially turned into Tony Soprano, never to return to normal life again since the series ended.  But, there reached a certain point in the twisted tale of sex, murder, and family-life where I actually found myself feeling attracted to this monster!  It was like I had temporarily turned into Lorraine Bracco (slow accent and all), oscillating between disgust, pity and affection for a probably legitimately screwed up, yet kind of sweet, Italian-American Mafioso.  I guess the producers did their job.  Ah well, whattayagonnado?

  

2. Russel "Stringer" Bell of The Wire

Ah Stringer.  I almost didn't want to admit this tv-crush to anyone (even though Matt totally called it after the first season) and not only because he's a ruthless drug-dealer-thug who double crosses his best friend.  He also wears pleated pants and 80s sweaters, which kinda weirds me out.  And let's face it, we were all a little grossed out that time he kissed Dawnette, and I was definitely put-off when he started schmoozing with nasty old Senator Davis, but I loved Stringer.  And when he died, I almost didn't want to keep watching (but I did) and even so, I mourned Stringer deeply when Omar finally "popped a cap" in him in that ridiculously intense chase-scene in the empty building.  And frankly, I'm not ashamed to say that mourning was extended further when McNulty found the Samurai swords and a copy of  The Wealth of Nations at Stringer's rather tasteful Baltimore apartment.

1. Don Draper of Mad Men

This is the real deal ladies.  I had no idea who Jon Hamm was until I saw this show, and I am still not really sure I want to know who Jon Hamm is.  I'd be satisfied knowing he was just Don Draper for the duration of Mad Men and then once it is over - poof!- he will just disintegrate into tiny little molecules and be gone with the wind.  This harshness is necessary because you and I know that Jon Hamm cannot live up to Don Draper.  He's not as handsome, not as persuasive, not as madly manish.  Don Draper would never be scruffy or wear boho chic clothes while sipping a Latte in L.A.!  No, he's got the slicked back hair-tailored-suit-neat-whiskey thing going on, even though he is seriously screwed up. 

Yes, yes, he grew up a redneck on a farm, was beaten severely by his father, then stole someone's identity in World War II, but these are all just details!  What's really important is that, despite serially cheating on his pretty little cream-puff of a wife with women of questionable taste (seriously), he manages somehow to come off as genuinely caring, interesting, intelligent, driven, and even devoted.  How is that possible?!  I don't know, I don't care.  Bring on the next episode and don't let it end!

A Drizzle of Joy: Lemon Drizzle Cake

A Drizzle of Joy: Mini Lemon Drizzle Bundt Cakes

Merry (belated) Christmas!  Happy New Year!  And Happy Birthday to me! 

Lots of fun and delicious things to celebrate in December, as usual, and while I've been MIA in the blogosphere, I have been nothing short of prolific in the kitchen.  Here's a post I wrote a couple of weeks ago, as I prepped for Christmas dinner (I froze these cakes and then thawed and drizzled them on Christmas eve).  These delicious little lemon drizzle bundt cakes seem almost a distant memory now, but a fond one.  I hope everyone had a wonderful season with their loved ones!

* * *

I became a cake addict pretty late in my life.  Up until the age of about 26 I'd pretty much avoided cake and sweets like the plague (except for the odd cookie or brownie), generally opting for savory foods over sweet.  I thought of cake as trite, over-used for parties and celebrations, over-decorated with cheap disgusting sprinkles, and, worst of all, covered in icing so sickly-sweet it made my lips pucker just thinking about it.  That was until I moved to London and joined the cult-following of cake as a way of life at The Primrose Bakery.


In addition to realizing that it's damn hard to keep your figure intact while professionally associated with a cake shop, I also discovered that the universal suspicion is true: there is definitely a secret, intangible ingredient put into home baked goods that actually does make you happy. It was always heartwarming to watch a child pick out his very own pink or green cupcake, or to look at faces as the first bite of that giant slice of chocolate cake went in.  Whether they'd chosen Victoria Sponge or Plum Cake, pretty much everyone who entered that little shop - celebrity, civilian or even the dogs - left looking visibly jollier than when they'd arrived.


It's that time of year again.  The time to be jolly, joyful, and spread all sorts of good cheer.  Christmas is one of my favorite times to bake, and this year I decided to make an old favorite from my bakery days, and one that doesn't seem to be all that common in the US - a guaranteed golden ticket to Smile City, or, if I can continue further with the cheesy phrases, a true drizzle of joy: Lemon Drizzle Cake (see below for recipe).


And in the continued name of random and rather purposeless Top 5 Lists: There were many perks associated with working at a bakery - most involving gluttonous consumption of sweet things - but here is a list of my personal top 5.

* * *

Top 5 Reasons Working at a Cake Shop Rocked

and no, I'm not generally a "cake person"

5. Managerial Taste-testing Privileges

As the manager I didn't just get to oversee the practical day-to-day running of the bakery, I also got to scope out our offerings and determine whether they were up to snuff or not.  This often required hands-on taste-testing.  There were certain products that always had to be tested before they even left the kitchen.  The brownies for example.  And I do not believe I am overstepping the boundaries of propriety when I say that I truly believe Americans are more qualified to determine the worthiness of a brownie than our dear British compatriots.  Let's face it, a good American-style cake shop is only as good as its worst brownie.

4. Buttercream.

Cakes growing up always had that should-be-illegal sugar-water concoction that grocery stores try to pass for icing.  It is stiff and flavorless (unless of course you consider pure refined sugar a flavor, in which case I wholeheartedly encourage you to make your way to your nearest Kroger and dig in).  And once you've had real homemade buttercream icing, you can never go back to it.  Learning to make buttercream icing and then learning to ice cupcakes and layer cakes with it is a simple but delicious art which I wholeheartedly embraced during my time as cake-woman, and it is one I hope to carry on perfecting for years to come.  I know Matt and Roman are glad for it anyhow. :)

3. Champagne Truffles & Crystalized Rose Petals.

Another perk of working at a "luxury" cake shop, were the "luxury" items we ordered to put on the cakes.  Supplying people like Fortnum & Mason means you get to work with (eat?) amazing things like handmade champagne truffles and real crystalized rose petals on a somewhat regular basis.  If doing this isn't already on a list of sure-fire ways to up your happy-hormones, it should be.

2. Bottomless Cappuccinos.

What is a cake shop without top notch coffee and tea to go with the cakes?  A sad, sad place, if you must ask.  And let me tell you, our bakery was anything but sad.  We served only Illy caffe and artisan teas.  I must have consumed, on average, 5-6 cups of coffee every work day.  Give me a latte to start off the day.  Then there's the mid-morning cappuccino and chat with the owners.  Move onto the late morning pick-me-up espresso, and maybe another if the coffee supplier guy comes by, while you shoot the shizzle over the week's latest gossip.  Next comes another cappuccino in the afternoon, just to get you over the hump.  And maybe an Americano before you head out, just so the tube ride isn't too unbearable.  And the best part is, I learned to make them all myself.  I was a milk-frothing, espresso-pulling, splenda-slinging fiend.  And now I know that one day when I have an unbelievably cool, industrial grade Italian hand-pulled coffee machine in my kitchen, I will be able to razzle-dazzle all my family with my mad coffee making skills.

1. A Drizzle of Pure Joy.

Of all the things we served at the bakery, my favorite was one of the only cakes Martha and Lisa chose to leave out of their cookbook: the lemon drizzle cake.  As cakes go, Lemon Drizzle is kind of a UK Institution.  Everyone seems to eat it, like it, ask for it, and have their own recipe.  It's a super simple presentation of a lemon sponge cake with a lemon juice and sugar drizzle poured over it.  I love it anytime of year, but especially when I need a little reminder of my drizzly but joyful time spent living in London. :)

* * *

Lemon Drizzle Cake

Makes 2 Loaves, 2- 8" Round Cakes, or ~16 Mini Bundt Cakes

This is a pretty standard lemon sponge cake recipe and the result is strikingly similar to the one at the bakery.  It is good enough to eat, really. :)

225g Golden Caster Sugar (or superfine sugar)

225g All-Purpose Flour

2 1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

25g Cornstarch

2 sticks (225g) unsalted butter, at room temp

4 large eggs

2-3 large, juicy lemons - zest and juice

Drizzle:
2-4 large lemons, juice
1 cup (100g) white granulated sugar

* * *

1. Preheat your oven to 375F.


2. Using a food processor, pour the flour, sugar, baking powder and cornstarch in and mix until completely blended.


3. Add the remaining ingredients (making certain the butter is completely at room temp first) and mix until combined.


4. Pour into two large loaf tins (the tins should be 1/2 to 2/3 full), dividing the batter evenly.


5. Bake for 25 minutes or until golden brown and a skewer or tooth pick inserted in the center comes out clean. DO AHEAD: Allow the cakes to cool completely then wrap in cling film and freeze for up to a month.

6. While baking the cakes, make the drizzle by combining the sugar and lemon juice.

7. Allow the cakes to cool completely in their tins, then carefully remove and place on a plate.  Poke holes all over the loaves with a skewer then spoon the drizzle over the loaves and allow it to set.   Serve in slices.

Flashback: The Lobster Landing & How I Learned to Love Butter

A Lobster Roll from The Lobster Landing in Clinton, CT

Lobster Roll Nirvana on earth.

Despite our immediate cosmic connection, there were several points on which Matt and I differed when we met, and even for years after we started dating, and got married. One of these points was butter. He loved it, cooked with it, smeared it on everything edible. I, on the other hand, grew up in a house of margarine and canola (rapeseed) oil and found his use of butter nothing short of an open display of gluttony. "Might as well inject fat into your veins!" I would taunt. He always just shook his head and laughed.

On that note, this summer we visited Connecticut. One of the things that is most appealing to me about New England is the coastal aspect of its culture. I am a seafood fiend and would eat it almost every single day if I could. Connecticut is where I first tried whole-bellied clams, maniacally ate "steamers" with my bare hands, where I discovered the beauty of a garlic and clam pizza pie, and where I was first introduced to the concept of a "Lobster Roll."

All of these experiences culminated in the utter demise of my butter snobbery and allowed me to discover a real hidden gem. Here's how and why, in list form.

* * *

How I Learned to Love Butter & Lobster Rolls
Connecticut-Seafood-Style

The Lobster Landing, Clinton CT

4. A toast.
This has nothing to do with seafood, but I must admit it was on a piece of toasted bread that I first learned to appreciate what butter can do for a piece of food.

To this day, I cannot count buttering a piece of toast as one of my mother's many-splendid talents. When she does it, she leaves a giant clump of butter, half-smeared, in the middle of the toast. It never melts, and you end up biting into a blob of cold butter, which is unpleasant and, well, greasy. Sadly, I also took on that toast buttering style for most of my life, not knowing any better, and therefore avoided putting butter on bread at all costs - much less eating it.

Enter Matt. Enter paper-thin slivers of butter that instantly melt and are deftly scraped across the entire piece of bread the moment they touch the hot toast. Enter small, dainty pools of melted butter which swirl into the strawberry jam you put on top. Enter butter-loving Brenda.


3. Heavenly made and heavenly matched.
Clams and Butter: they go together "like a wink and a smile," in the melodic words of Harry Connick Jr.

I don't remember exactly when it happened - definitely before Matt and I were married - his dad came home with a giant bag of fresh "steamers." I had no idea what that meant, and I didn't really care either until fifteen minutes later when I saw the pot of freshly opened clams and an accompanying pot of "butter sauce" (read: melted butter) to go with them.

Now, these clams are interesting because they are anything but aesthetically pleasing to look at. They go by lots of names: soft-shells, longnecks, essex clams, and even, sadly, piss clams. They have a gigantic clam "foot" which you have to peel before dipping them into butter and eating them whole (minus the shell, of course).

While I still recall today feeling that the clams would have reached a level of sublimity had there been some lemon juice somewhere to compliment the butter, I do also remember that I, for one of the first times, appreciated having that melted butter to dip them in, and did not actually have to keep consciously telling myself it was ok that I was eating "melted fat" because it was de-li-cious.


2. "Tonight we eat!"
We took a pleasure cruise on the Hannah May this June in Connecticut. Matt's dad had a crazy twinkle in his eye, the kind you only get when you're out to catch something. On this particular day it was fish on Long Island sound. Matt and his father were armed with poles and they weren't coming back to shore empty-handed.

As luck would have it, within 5 minutes of dropping the hook into the water, Matt was reeling furiously with the weight of an unlucky but rather portly bluefish. And after a great exclamation of joy, much fiddling with a net and cutting the line, we know that night we'd have a mighty feast.

Matt's parents kept talking about this "great way" they always make bluefish. When the platter finally hit the dinner table that night, I realized they had used one of my newly found but also newly favorite recipes: beurre meuniere. It's a French butter sauce in which you toast the butter and mix it with shallots, sherry vinegar and lemon juice (here's my take). When I tasted that fish, it reaffirmed exactly why you could never use oil for a sauce like that, and why the butter was almost as important as the fish that night.


1. The Lobster Roll: Trial, Error and Nirvana.
The first lobster roll I ever had was at a forgettable place near Mystic, Connecticut almost 5 years ago. I can never recall the name of the place, but I recall with exactitude the way I felt after I bit into my lobster roll: The sun was beating down on us, the lobster meat was shredded on a stale hotdog bun which was soggy from all the butter that had been mixed into the meat. There was no salt, no lemon and the lobster tasted almost like shredded imitation crab. What a waste of time and lobster meat! Almost $20.00 the poorer, bitterness quickly set in.

Luckily, this past June Matt's dad off-handedly mentioned a place in Clinton run by an old Italian guy who is also a fisherman. His family runs this little "shack" right on the water and it had been claimed by the likes of unmentionable snobby celebrity chefs to be one of the best lobster rolls ever. Needless to say, a day later there we were.

Having just left the beach, we were hot and hungry. Roman camped out in his car seat with the doors open as we sat outside next to the car on a rickety but clean card table overlooking the water. The Lobster Landing is actually a little shack. It's old and quaint and outside of it is a giant bbq where the Bacci family mans the station where you can buy lobster rolls or hot dogs, accompanied by a bag of chips and canned soda or water. Inside the shack is the old Italian man himself, shucking clams, cleaning fish - doing his fisherman thing. No frills. No pomp. (pic: seating and ordering at The Lobster Landing)

When I got my lobster roll I noticed an immediate difference from the train wreck in Mystic: we're talking giant hunks of briny, fresh lobster meat, delicately placed over a fresh bun, oozing in butter. The bun was warm from having been toasted in the same bbq as the lobsters were cooking in, and it had been generously brushed with butter and lemon sauce before having the hulking portion of succulent lobster meat placed on it. The whole thing comes wrapped in foil to preserve the heat, though I doubt one has ever gotten cold. How could it? Mine was gone in under 2 minutes. (pic: Lobster Landing Menu and Prices)

The place doesn't look like much, but I would rate it among the top 10 seafood experiences of my life. And while I do give credit to the old Italian and his family, and even the lobster, even I have to admit, they just couldn't have done it without the butter. :)

* * *

The Lobster Landing
152 Commerce St. & Grove Ave.
Clinton, Connecticut 06413

Tel: (860) 669-2005


The Bacci Family signed their sidewalk
outside The Lobster Landing.

Malta: My Own Personal Benidorm

My Beloved Kinnie:
Bittersweetness in a sad, disgusting world of Maltese Benidorminess.

I'm not going to lie - I've seriously been avoiding posting my thoughts on our trip to Malta last October. Not that we had a bad time, but, well, the food was just terrible and to me that kind of taints the whole experience. Yes, I do realize it's been like 5 months, but it's such a dreary day outside, and if nothing else, we had great weather in Malta, so here's to the memory of that!

* * *

Have you ever seen the show "Benidorm?" If you haven't, you're not missing much. Well, ok, you are. because it's a comedic show that exploits the natural hilarity and inherent grotesque quality that is the reality of the used-to-be-quaint-village turned skyscraper-hotel-package-holiday-hell in the south of Spain called Benidorm.

Benidorm (the show) cleverly draws out and makes fun of the stereotypical (can't emphasize that word enough here!), working-class, Northern-European (read: British) tourist. It points out their quirks, annoying habits, and inevitably-familiar preferences. To them a vacation is an all-inclusive package of nothing but British food (English breakfast every morning!), bad cabaret shows put on by dolled-up locals who treat the tourists like the idiots they are, and days spent sunning (burning?) at the pool, critiquing the other "stupider" tourists and / or conspicuously flirting / making out by said poolside.

It hurts a little bit to watch shows like this because probably every single one of us either knows someone like the characters or has to admit to wanting their "eggs and bacon" breakfast everywhere they go. But it is hilarious because, in the end - whether it touches something personal or not - we all know exactly what they're talking about, and can laugh our haughty that-will-never-be-me-laugh from the comfort of our (my British) living rooms.

The Family: single-mother-daughter with token-interracial-baby, annoying brother, overweight dad, clueless mom. Mel & Madge, the feisty grandmother with the saggy-perma-tan and her (not-so) beau.

I did say grotesque.

But returning to the point of this post, I'm still not quite sure how Matt and I ended up in the real-life Maltese version of Benidorm in early October, but we did.

We were at a really nice hotel in the off-season in what was advertised as a "quaint village" north of Valletta in Malta. Numerous people on Trip Advisor had specifically commented on how great the buffet breakfast was --

* Small Note on Buffet Breakfasts *

I do not hold my nose up at buffet breakfasts. I am a fan of the buffet concept as a general rule, as long as it is done well. For example, the hotel we stayed at in Thailand had a buffet breakfast that rivaled many a la carte restaurants I've been to. Grilled fish, fresh tropical fruits, complimentary champagne...on the other hand, I've had my fair share of crappy Chinese buffets and so I do know the dangers that can and often do lurk beneath the stainless steal lids...

* end small note on Buffet Breakfasts*

-- and frankly, I was looking forward to my all-included gluttonous morning feastivities. The hotel had three pools (a must with the Master in tow), was in walking-distance from the beach, and offered easy access to both Valletta and Gozo. Great? Not so great.

* * *

My Top 5 Stories, Thoughts, Musings on the Maltese Experience
or, why Mellieha is Benidorm

5. Guido the Cab Driver
As is often the case, our first introduction to Malta came via our cab driver from the airport. Unlike in Brussels, the guy we got was about as close to the stereotypical idea of a sleaze-bucket-douche-bag as one man can get. His name was Guido (I won't get into the ironically appropriate implications there) and he knew everything there was to know on any subject worth knowing - and better than anybody else (especially women).

We weren't paying him to drive us, he was doing us a favor. He escorted us to the car by clicking his mouth to signal he was ready to go after leaving us to wait (me, seething) for five minutes while he chatted in Maltese with a fellow cabby, all the while lifting his shirt half-way to rub his nasty middle-aged belly, the way sleaze-buckets are wont to do. (This was at 2 in the morning, mind you.) He would only address Matt ("stupid women don't understand") and he claimed to speak four languages and assumed we only spoke one ("stupid Americans don't understand") even after we'd told him several times that wasn't the case (still seething).

He gave Matt a lecture on driving on the left-side of the road (even though he has done it pretty consistently for the three years we've lived in the UK, which we mentioned to Guido), told us to check "on top of [our] heads" whenever we park somewhere to see if there is a no-parking sign, told me that all women are after men's money and possessions and that's why he'd never married (apologizing the whole time for saying so but that it was true, "so, sorry") and was back in Malta living with his mother (silent internal screaming fit in Brenda's head start NOW.).

When we asked if there were any good restaurants in Mellieha (his hometown apparently), he patronizingly said, "well, none of them are bad - you'll get food no problem. It's not tough - just check the menu to see what they have and how much it costs before you go in or you might end up somewhere you don't want to be."

Thank you Guido. Seeing as the stupid American woman has never been to a restaurant, other country, or outside of the kitchen (where she permanently resides, barefoot and sometimes pregnant, scheming for her husband's money and possessions) frankly, it is a good thing we got you as our cabby.

Once we'd arrived, he then proceeded to say he didn't have change (in order to "con" the stupid American man out of an extra large tip) but quickly changed his tune when Matt said he had no problem waiting for him to go into the hotel lobby to get change from the concierge. Bastard Guido. At least now we knew where we stood as American tourists.


4. The Food Dilemma
The buffet breakfast was up to snuff...if you're a character in Benidorm. It consisted of a continental breakfast (not my bag) and a British breakfast, complete with badly cooked sausages, soggy bacon, baked beans, and copious amounts of ketchup and brown sauce available. In fact, probably the best things they had were the fresh rye bread loafs (which I could only snag on the days we were early) and the fried eggs (and even those were sometimes really bad). Oh and the little foil-wrapped cheese wedges you get at all European hotels. I'm a fan of those.

Thinking breakfast was an anomaly, we decided to try out the hotel's really well furnished pizzeria downstairs. It offered really basic fair that it would take a decidedly, determinedly bad chef to mess up: pizza, spaghetti, salads. Guess what, they had a decidedly - triumphantly, even! - bad chef.

The experience at every other place we ate was the same. The menu looked good, the place looked good, the food was horrendous, even their "typical Maltese dishes" which were generally "rabbit in a white wine sauce" (oh it sounds good, but oh it isn't!) or some horrific variance thereof.

To put it in black and white for you: Matt and I ended up eating at the local Chinese Restaurant 3 out of 5 nights we were there. Desperate times call for desperate measures (and fried ice cream).


3. Another Douche Bag and his Famiglia
When you're at a medium-sized hotel it's inevitable to run into other guests on a repeated basis. I actually find that charming about certain travel experiences - getting to know others on a basic, acquaintance level, so that you have someone to nod or smile to every morning at breakfast, at the pool, or even a new friend. Sadly, the only people (besides several German, senior citizen couples) this happened to us with was a douchey Italian power-couple and their catamite (as Matt shamelessly dubbed him) son.

I wish with every fiber in my being that I had mustered up the courage to take a picture of these people. You probably won't believe me when I describe them. Then again, if you've ever been to an Italian city or beach you are likely to have run into them or one of their many followers: Hands flying, chins jutting out and shoulders raising, they walk and talk as if they were being followed by an entourage of paparazzi at all times. After all, they are too cool with their curly hair stiff with too much product, a generous whiff of spray-on deodorant, skin-tight clothing and permanent sunglasses - at breakfast, lunch, dinner, while swimming, while coffeeing, day or night, inside or outside. Oh, and they all seem to possess an unshakable conviction that they can convince anyone of anything anywhere (I like to call this the "veni, vidi, vici complex"), just because they deserve to get their way.

Matt, Roman and I were lucky enough to see them everywhere every single day of our vacation. We breakfasted at the same times, swam at the same times (their 6 year old, for the record, swam entirely naked in the pool and I am compelled to comment here that I really think that age is a little past the cutoff where kids are "cute" when naked in public places), asked questions (well, demanded things) at reception at the same time, we arrived the same day and left the same day, and we even decided to take a day trip to Gozo and eat and play at the same beach the same day. It was funny in a "why the hell is this happening to us?" kind of way.


2. Gozo & Jeffrey's Restaurant
Gozo: If you don't plan to go(zo) there, you better not go(zo) to Malta. :) Ok, enough with the cheesy gozo jokes, and enough with the exaggeration: there were other nice places in Malta. Valletta was very pretty, actually, and has lots of amazing history. But Gozo is stunning. Stunn-ing. And if we hadn't gone there, I probably would have left Malta feeling really cheated because my favorite place we'd have gone would have been the indoor pool at our hotel. (Enough with the exaggeration, Brenda!)

But of course there was a catch: Jeffrey's Restaurant almost ruined Gozo for me.

We spent the day lounging on beaches, seeing Calypso's disappointingly small cave, and driving through beautiful little villages. The island itself is the picture of rusticity and untouched beauty with only one small "town" on the harbor for the large ferries that are constantly coming and going, and even that is very pretty. The most amazing thing we saw while there was what is sold to tourists as the "azure window." It is a rock formation that dramatically juts out onto the ocean on the wilder side of Gozo and one of the most beautifully wondrous places to see a sunset. Being there on the off-season, it was only lightly sprinkled with other sunset seekers. But it is awkward climbing on spiky eroded rock, and the light goes quickly, so if you do go, make sure you're not carrying a baby, or bring a flashlight. Or both. :)

After a small transcendentalist moment at the azure window, we, famished, headed out to find a restaurant that was open nearly 9pm, which in Gozo is much harder than one would imagine. Given that there are literally probably under 5 ATMs for the entire island, Matt and I jumped at the first half-decent place we saw that wasn't fast food and ended up at Jeffrey's Restaurant.
So quaint, so cute, and so jam-packed full of happy looking people, I sighed a great relief when Roman fell asleep and the women gave me a table despite not having a reservation (several people came through the door and were turned away after us). How could we go wrong? The menu was full of local dishes as well as international cuisine and had some decent sounding seafood. Matt and I felt happy to have finally found Malta's culinary redemption in an off-the-beaten-path little family joint such as this.

But then we got our food. Seafood soup - more unopened mussels and clams than open ones. Shady fish, and crappy broth. I ordered a filet mignon steak (mistake 1), then asked for it medium (mistake 2). What I got was something approximating leather in the form of a salisbury steak - so dry and old I almost threw up the moment I tasted it. Then Matt thought I was exaggerating (mistake 3) so he tasted it (mistake 4) and also almost threw up. I tried to compose myself as I gagged into my napkin and realized the maitre d' / owner had seen the whole thing. He brought the chef over who insisted on giving me a new steak. ONLY in order not to make a scene did I accept the second steak which was slightly less old but equally disgusting. I couldn't eat more than 2 bites. We paid and left as soon as we finished the "on the house" dessert we got to compensate us for the rotten 40Euro steak they had given us, TWICE.

Ah, we had a good time anyway. But if you like food and depend on it as a big part of your vacations - take it from us, don't go to Malta.


1. How Kinnie Saved the Trip
One out of two of the only truly and uniquely Maltese things that I found redeeming about this trip was, amazingly, a soda.

I don't drink much soda and therefore I'd never heard of Kinnie until this trip to Malta. I've still never seen it sold here in the UK, and think it would probably be hard to find almost anywhere. But I dream about it - oh how I dream about it.

Kinnie is like coca-cola with a few drops of orange bitters thrown in. It's like a grown-up version of a soft drink minus the alcohol. A campari and soda with the sweetness of pop. It's tasty, refreshing and comes in an awesome orange can reminiscent of the only other uniquely Maltese thing I found redeeming of Malta: its really cool retro orangey-yellow public buses.

GO KINNIE! At the end of the day, I took refuge in you, knowing that I would one day get back to my own kitchen again and eat normal food, but just a little bit the sadder also knowing that you would not be there to share it with me!

* * *

Some fun Maltese Moments


Roman at Ramla Beach;
still young (and cute) enough to go naked at the beach.


Fried Ice Cream at the local Chinese in Mellieha


The Azure Window: worth the trip to Gozo.


Maltese Public Buses - super retro, super cool.


So happy to be here.